Fielding pointed at the bank of monitors. ‘We can pretty much see everywhere from the cameras,’ he said. ‘Ian’s in radio contact with his stewards and I can talk to my officers.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Fifty inside the stadium, another ten outside,’ said Fielding. ‘I don’t know if Ian’s told you but every match needs a safety certificate signed off by the chairman of the Safety Advisory Group consisting of representatives from the football club, the local council, the police, ambulance and fire brigade. The SAG always grades matches according to risk – Category A is low risk, B is medium, C is high-risk, and C plus is for those games where we’re almost certain that trouble will kick off. This boxing event was initially graded as A, low risk with minimal police, just ten officers on duty, but after representations from the Russian Embassy the risk assessment was raised to Category B. That means we’re authorised to bring in more men but realistically we’re not expecting any problems. Boxing fans are generally a good-natured bunch.’
‘You’re searching everybody who comes in?’ asked Murray.
Fielding nodded. ‘The organisers have placed metal detectors at all the entrances to the stadium, manned by their own security guards, and so far they seem to be doing a good job. They’re acting professionally with good humour and it’s not causing any problems that we can see.’
Fielding’s radio buzzed. He mouthed an apology to Murray and put it to his ear.
‘How are things, Andrew?’ It was Superintendent Stephen Enfield, the officer in charge of the Met Control Centre at Bow.
‘All good, Superintendent.’
‘No problems?’
‘We’ve had a few weapons confiscated, penknives mainly, and a chap claimed that his knuckleduster was a paperweight, but nothing serious. Everyone’s very well-behaved – it’s a pleasant change from a match day.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way,’ said the superintendent. ‘Have you spoken to the SAS chappie, Alex Murray?’
‘He’s here now.’
‘Excellent. He’s already met with the SFOs so there won’t be any embarrassing misunderstandings. Captain Murray and his team will be in radio contact with me while they’re there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man. Talk to you later.’
Fielding put down his radio and apologised to the captain.
‘All good,’ said Murray. ‘Ian’s going to give me the tour and then I’ll head down to the VIP area.’ He shook hands again with Fielding and left with Chapman.
Fielding dropped into one of the chairs facing the monitors. The main bout was a couple of hours away and he planned to watch it as close to the ringside as he could get. And the fact he was wearing full uniform meant that would be pretty darn close.
‘Are you all right there, Terry? You’re like you’ve got something on your mind.’ Tommy O’Neill was sitting at a table in the Mayfair bar with his third bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket by his side. Marty was opposite him, and a blonde with pneumatic breasts that were threatening to burst out of her red dress was running her scarlet fingernails along the thigh of his black Armani suit.
Shepherd faked a smile and patted his chest. ‘Indigestion,’ he said. ‘Should have done what my old mum used to say and chew before I swallow.’
‘I’ve got some Rennies if you want,’ said Tommy.
‘Nah, I’m good.’ Shepherd had arrived at the Mayfair just as the O’Neills had been sitting down to eat, along with Evans and two others of their crew. After they’d polished off their steaks they’d moved to the bar and demolished half a dozen bottles of champagne between them.
Marty looked at his watch. ‘We should be making a move,’ he said. ‘No way of telling what the traffic’s going to be like.’
‘Yeah, I don’t want to miss the Wilkie-Okoro fight,’ said Tommy. ‘I need to see Okoro fold in the fifth. Because if he doesn’t there’ll be hell to pay.’ He raised his glass to Marty, grinned then drained it in one.
Marty waved for the bill and handed over a gold credit card, brushing away Shepherd’s attempts to pay. ‘Nah, Terry, today’s on me,’ he said. ‘After everything you’ve done for us recently, it’s the least we can do.’
Wendy Aspden reached for her phone. She had Willoughby-Brown’s number on speed-dial and spoke to him through her headset. ‘We’ve got movement,’ she said, as soon as he had answered. She was looking at the screen in front of her, showing a thermal image of the front of the house. All three figures had gathered at the left-hand side of the hallway. ‘They’re heading towards the garage,’ she said. ‘Looks like they’re on the move.’
‘What about the gun case?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.
‘One went up into the attic and brought something down with him. I’m going to get things moving here and I’ll call you back.’
‘I’ll be linked in to your radio feed,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘You want to be in at the kill?’ asked Aspden, surprised.
‘Try to keep me away,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
Aspden ended the call, opened the door and shouted across the hallway to the SFOs: ‘Let’s get ready to move, guys. They’re heading out.’
Elyas Assadi placed the gun case in the boot of the Prius and got into the front passenger seat next to Johnny Malik, who already had the engine running. Amma al-Kawthari pulled up the garage door and Malik drove slowly out. Al-Kawthari closed the door and got into the back of the car.
The traffic was heavy and Malik had to wait several minutes before it was safe to edge out. He was breathing slowly, trying to stay calm. He checked his rear-view mirror, then accelerated to keep pace with the traffic. His mouth had gone dry and he wished he’d thought of bringing a bottle of water.
‘Are you all right, brother?’ asked Assadi.
Malik tried to smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Assadi reached over and squeezed Malik’s knee. ‘You’re doing well.’
‘I’m just nervous, brother. I don’t want anything to go wrong.’
‘Nothing will go wrong, brother,’ said al-Kawthari, from the back seat. ‘Inshallah.’
‘Everything has been planned,’ said Assadi, giving Malik’s knee another gentle squeeze. ‘Do not worry. Just follow your instructions and everything will be fine.’
Willoughby-Brown climbed into the back of the van and the driver closed the door electronically. Willoughby-Brown placed his transceiver on the table, pressed a button on a console and a screen folded down from the roof. There was a keyboard on a shelf behind the driver and he leaned forward, grabbed it and laid it on the table next to the transceiver. He put on the transceiver’s earpiece and tapped on the keyboard. The screen flickered into life. The van had mobile Wi-Fi and within seconds he had the feed from Aspden’s screen in front of him. There was a map of London and small red circles showing the locations of vehicles she had put in place.
Willoughby-Brown pressed a button to talk to the driver. ‘Can you hear me, Tim?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
‘Excellent. Head west, north of the river, as soon as possible. No great rush at the moment. Nice and steady.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Willoughby-Brown pressed the button on his transceiver to get to the frequency Aspden was using.
‘Bravo Two has eyeball. On the A40 heading east.’
‘Roger that Bravo Two,’ he heard Aspden say. ‘Bravo One, prepare to take over eyeball.’
‘Bravo One preparing to take eyeball.’
Bravo 1 and Bravo 2 were the motorcycles being used in the surveillance. Bravo 1 was a small moped. A Plexiglas screen was attached to its handlebars with a taxi route clipped to it. Anyone seeing the bike would assume it was a wannabe black-cab driver learning the Knowledge. Bravo 2 was a high-powered Kawasaki bike, its rider outfitted as a courier.
There were two nondescript saloon cars, one of which was now a quarter of a mile ahead of the Prius, the other about the same distance behind. The bikes would take it
in turns to keep the target car in sight while the two cars would be ready to take up any slack if necessary.
Willoughby-Brown pressed the transmit button. ‘Mike One is on line,’ he said.
‘Welcome aboard,’ said Aspden.
‘How are we looking?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.
‘So far so good,’ said Aspden. ‘From the way the Prius is being driven it doesn’t look as if they’re taking any counter-surveillance measures. They’re braking in plenty of time to stop at red lights, they indicate at every turn, and they’re at a constant speed most of the time.’
Willoughby-Brown pressed the button to talk to the driver again. ‘Tim, close to the A40 would be good.’
‘No problem, sir.’
Willoughby-Brown called Shepherd’s number but it went straight through to voicemail. He didn’t bother leaving a message. Shepherd would know what it was about.
Malik clicked the indicator to show he was turning right. Off to his left were the high brick walls of Wormwood Scrubs. He drove onto the A3220 and prepared to indicate another right turn, this one taking them into the huge Westfield Shopping Centre. He glanced into his rear-view mirror but didn’t notice the motorbike that was tucked in three cars behind.
He joined the queue of cars waiting to drive into the massive shopping centre: the size of thirty football pitches, it was home to more than 250 stores and parking for 4,500 vehicles.
‘Bravo One, Tango One is turning into the Westfield Shopping Centre,’ said the voice in Willoughby-Brown’s ear.
‘Stay with him, Bravo One,’ said Aspden.
‘Charlie One, Charlie Two, head for Westfield. It’s going to be crowded in there.’
Willoughby-Brown frowned. Attacking Westfield Shopping Centre with a rifle didn’t make much sense. A rifle was a surgical weapon, designed for taking out single targets. It was hardly the weapon of choice to cause carnage in a crowded shopping centre. And if that was their plan, the jihadists would find they had bitten off more than they could chew. Since the Islamic State terrorist attacks in Paris, the British government had increased security at shopping centres across the country. Armed police in plain clothes mingled with shoppers around the clock, and at times of high terrorist alert they were supplemented with armed SAS troopers. They would make short work of one man with a rifle. It would be different if they had been using explosives but there was no evidence of that.
Willoughby-Brown didn’t want to interrupt Aspden on the radio so he sent a text message: Westfield doesn’t feel right to me.
Aspden replied almost immediately: Me neither.
Shepherd travelled to the stadium in the back of a Mercedes with the O’Neills and Paul Evans. There was another car with four more of the O’Neill crew, and the two vehicles arrived at the VIP entrance at the same time. Marty led the way, tickets in hand, while Tommy followed with Evans. Shepherd held back. He took his phone out and had a quick look at the screen: one missed call, number withheld, almost certainly Willoughby-Brown. He slipped it back into his pocket. A pretty blonde in a fluorescent vest checked Marty’s tickets, flashed him a beaming smile and waved for him to go through. They walked down a narrow corridor to a reception room where there were four more security guards and a metal-detector arch. ‘Bloody hell, this is worse than getting on a plane,’ grumbled Tommy.
‘It’s just a precaution, sir,’ said a young lad in a fluorescent vest that seemed several sizes too big for him. ‘And you can leave your shoes on. Just phones and anything metallic in the tray.’
One by one they placed their belongings in grey plastic trays and walked through the arch. As Tommy was putting his phone and wallet back into his pockets, two middle-aged men in long coats walked up to him. Tommy sneered at them before either spoke, recognising them for what they were. ‘Thomas O’Neill, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and money-laundering,’ said the younger of the two. He was ginger-haired with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just said to you?’
‘I want to call my lawyer,’ growled Tommy.
‘You can do that from the station. Please turn around.’
Tommy did as he was told and the detective went to handcuff him. More detectives were coming into the room. Two went towards Marty, and two headed for Evans.
‘You don’t need the cuffs. I’m too long in the tooth to do a runner.’
‘It’s procedure, sir,’ he was told.
‘Don’t fuck around, Tommy,’ said the older detective. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t been arrested before, is it?’
‘It’s been a while,’ said Tommy. ‘And the last copper who put his hands on me lived to regret it, big-time.’
‘You wouldn’t be threatening a police officer, would you now, Tommy? I thought you knew better than that.’
Tommy glared at him but kept his mouth shut and allowed himself to be handcuffed.
Shepherd felt his arm being grabbed and turned to see a detective with grey hair and a dark moustache holding him. ‘Get your fucking hand off me,’ he snapped.
Another detective had read Marty his rights and was handcuffing him. Evans was also being cuffed. ‘This is fucking out of order!’ shouted Shepherd. He pushed the detective standing next to him in the chest, hard. ‘We’re just here for the fucking boxing!’
Shepherd was grabbed from behind and the detective he’d pushed was in his face. ‘Terry Taylor, you’re being charged with murder, and conspiracy to commit murder.’
‘Fuck off!’
Shepherd’s hands were cuffed behind him and he was frog-marched out of the room, down another corridor, and out to a car-parking area. Tommy was being put into one police van and Marty into another.
Evans was brought out by two burly detectives in leather jackets and he grinned at Shepherd. ‘Don’t worry, Terry, we’ll be out in a few hours. They’ve got nothing. Just keep schtum and let the lawyers do the talking. Tommy will handle everything.’
‘I want to see the fucking boxing, mate. This is a fucking liability.’
Evans laughed. ‘They’ll have it on at the cop shop. We can watch it there.’ Evans glared at the detective who was holding his left arm. ‘I’ll be claiming back the cost of these tickets from the Met, and that’s a fucking promise.’
A security guard pulled back a metal gate and the two vans drove out. Evans was put into the back of a patrol car and driven off through the gate. Then it was Shepherd’s turn. Two detectives walked him over to a Mercedes police van, opened the rear door and helped him in. Amar Singh was sitting in the back and Shepherd grinned as the door slammed behind him.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said Shepherd.
‘Jeremy thought you might like to see a friendly face,’ said Singh. ‘And make sure they didn’t accidentally throw you in jail.’
‘It wouldn’t have been the first time.’
Singh showed him a handcuff key and Shepherd turned around so that he could release the cuffs. He massaged his wrists and sat down. The van was already moving. Shepherd gestured at the driver. ‘Where’s he going?’
‘Just away from here,’ said Singh. ‘Willoughby-Brown wants you to call him.’
‘Yeah. It’s turning out to be a busy day.’
‘Who do you think’ll win the fight?’
‘The Russian.’
‘Have you still got your ticket?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘It’d be a pity to waste it,’ said Singh. ‘It’s going to be an awesome fight. I’ve got fifty quid on the Russian.’
Stuart Smith followed the white Prius as it drove slowly through the car park. There were very few spaces to be had. Pretending to be a wannabe cabbie studying the Knowledge was a great cover on the open road but his moped with its Plexiglas map holder was out of place in the c
ar park so he hung well back.
‘Bravo One has eyeball. Tango One seems to be looking for a parking space,’ said Smith into his mic. The Prius turned right. The car behind went straight on. The car directly in front of Smith indicated right, then braked suddenly. Smith was so busy watching the Prius that he didn’t see the stop lights go on and slammed into the back of the car.
Smith cursed. He backed up and was about to pass the car when the driver sprang out. He was a big man with tattooed arms and a diamond earring in his left ear. ‘What the fuck are yez playing at?’ growled the man, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.
‘Sorry, mate, my bad,’ said Smith.
He tried to move on but the man grabbed his handlebars. ‘Where the fuck do yez think yer going?’ he said. ‘You need to pay for the damage.’
Smith looked at the rear of the man’s car. It was pristine. ‘There’s no damage, mate,’ he said. He glanced at the Prius. It had moved on, still looking for somewhere to park. ‘Bravo One, I’m losing eyeball,’ he said.
‘What the fuck are yez talking about?’ said the man.
‘Bravo Two, can you get in there?’ asked Aspden, in Smith’s ear.
‘Bravo Two, heading into the car park.’
‘Mate, look, I’m sorry, I fucked up,’ said Smith.
The man pointed at the rear bumper. ‘A hundred quid,’ he said. ‘A hundred quid or I’m calling the cops.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘You hit my car. That’s an accident, right? So I’m due compensation.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I might even have whiplash coming on.’
‘Mate, my bike weighs a hundred kilos soaking wet. You weigh twice that.’
The man continued rubbing his neck. ‘Yeah, I’m getting a headache. I might need a scan.’
‘A fucking lobotomy is what you need,’ said Smith. He pulled out his wallet and fished out a hundred pounds. He thrust the notes into the man’s hand. ‘Happy now?’
‘Prick,’ said the man, pocketing the notes. He got back into the car as Smith drove away, looking frantically for the Prius.
Malik looked right and left. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘Where are they? Why aren’t they here?’ The Prius was crawling along at walking pace.
[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 34
